


apprentice.

by sainttoxin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Apprenticeship, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Force-Sensitive Original Character(s), Force-Sensitive Reader, Hate Sex, Love/Hate, Sith Master & Apprentice Relationship(s), Sith Training (Star Wars), Sparring, Teacher Kylo Ren, Training, resistance original character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sainttoxin/pseuds/sainttoxin
Summary: Kylo Ren has killed Snoke and taken his place as Supreme Leader. The Resistance has been wiped away and the First Order has rule over the galaxy. You’d narrowly escaped with your life, hiding and honing your abilities in the ruins of the desolate Aaris III, long abandoned.Your work with the Force, however, has not gone without notice. You’ve piqued Kylo Ren’s interest.
Relationships: Ben Solo | Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & Original Female Character(s), Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Original Character(s), Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 17
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've literally never written a fic before, much less a (character)/reader, so we'll see what happens
> 
> likely to get violent, likely to get explicit, likely to get angsty
> 
> let's rock n roll !!

The rule of the First Order has little control over rural life, though those who'd survived the conflicts don't easily forget. Ex-resistance fighters had thrown off the title and fled to remote areas once the Order had claimed its victory, and for good reason— those who were captured had never been shown mercy, never been spared.

Your father had been one. More intel than warrior, your childhood had been warm and bustling with excitement, often tension, Resistance fighters from all walks of life finding refuge and a hot meal in your home. In the evening, visitors would entertain you with stories of far-off planets and successful conflicts, and at night, you'd press your ear to the door of your father's study and listen to talk of strategy and war. In all of the talk, you'd see the scenes as vividly as if they were your own memories. You'd feel the emotion, you'd know what was coming next and when someone was lying. There never existed much of a barrier between you and the minds of others. 

Despite the warmth of the house and the community of the Resistance, the cloud of war was always overhead, ever growing. Flashes in the sky at night, talk of hiding. You were a teenager when you'd realized the danger of your father’s operation. It was around that time, too, that the power in your blood started to manifest in new ways.

You were fifteen when a weary traveler had shown you her pack of treasures, including some old metal hilt–– the weapon of one of the Jedi of old, she'd told you, and had rested it in your hands.

The metal seemed to burn you with some unknown energy, and as if an extension of your own body, the plasma blade whirred to life and shot out, bright and blinding. You'd looked to your father in awe and couldn't discern his expression. Fear? Pride?

_Keep it_ , the traveler had said. _It's come all this way to find you, it seems_.

That had been nearly ten years ago now, on a planet far away, in a house that is now no more than foundation and rubble.

You'd fled to Aaris III after the final conflict, the only survivor of the raid of your father's house. Wounded and afraid and alone, more alone than you’d ever been, you’d managed your escape, leaving the charred bodies of friends and family behind you. You’d return one day. One day, you’d be powerful enough to seek revenge, not caring much about how impossible the idea seemed. It burns in your mind now as hot as it had then. 

You’d found Aaris, abandoned but teeming with natural life and lush jungle, and you’d healed, learned to survive, and started your practice. Life is simple, if isolated— Perhaps this is how the Jedi had lived: tranquil. Alone.

Each day, you survive by hunting and gathering. Each day, you hone your skills the best you can, for what? It isn't clear. However, the buzzing in your veins won't let you sleep if you don't utilize it. There is no ignoring it. The Force, you know it’s called, but you don’t know much else.

Each night, you mourn. There is no one in the jungle to hear your weeping, and that's both a comfort and another wound.

. . .

It's dusk. Squatting on the bank of the creek to wash your hands, you see your parents in your reflection, you hear their voices crying out across time. Dead at the hands of the First Order. Your grief and rage coexist in equal parts. It comes on like this sometimes, sudden and painful, but this time is different, there's a purpose to it— There’s a disturbance.

Then, you hear it. It takes a moment to place the sound after a year of solitude: engines. You're on your feet in seconds, craning up to search the sky when your heart drops.

A ship.

A First Order ship.

A large part of you is screaming to sprint into the trees to hide in the endless jungle, to wait out their occupation. There’s some small hope that this is coincidence, just a probe into the abandoned planet, but your intuition knows better. They’ve come with a purpose. 

_How had they found you in the Outer Rim?_

No time to decide the best course of action, because the ship is landing and you're gripping your lightsaber, heart pounding in your ears. _I can't do this._

Then, a voice that isn't your own:

_You must._

The very sight of the insignia on the ship fills you with a new rage you’d nearly forgotten. It overwhelms you, blood boiling and heart racing, hands white-knuckled on the hilt of your saber. 

Despite all rationality, you run towards the ship just as troopers are filing out and the first is met with all the rage of your grief as you slash the blade down through his shoulder, the familiar smell of smoke and metal waking memories you thought you'd forgotten. Your training, though rudimentary and often aimless, hadn't been for nothing. You find yourself stopping blaster shots before they reach you, taking down another trooper and then a third, but more and more file out, and soon your senses are overwhelmed as they approach from all sides with weapons drawn. You cannot stop every attack.

While turning to protect yourself from one blast, another hits your shoulder, the pain shooting down your arm, up your neck–– And then another to the stomach, stunning you.

Then, a sharp crack at the back of your head, stars exploding in your vision, the world turning. You lose your saber when you hit the ground, dazed, violet sky quickly fading. This is it, your end at the hands of First Order foot soldiers who'd found you at last. Just another piece of Resistance scum wiped from the galaxy, even all this time after the war.

As your vision fades, you see a figure approaching. His face comes into view when he bends over you, pale and detestable. You hear the filtered voice of a trooper:

"General Hux, is this the one?"

A gloved hand takes your chin to angle your face towards him. You wish you had the strength to spit in his face.

"Appears to be. Get her on the ship."

It's the last you hear before sinking into a sea of darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Unconscious void is broken apart by periods of semi-conscious twilight. Murmuring voices, cold metal, white and grey and black and silver; a far cry from Aaris and the desert you’d called home before. Sometimes dread, sometimes anger, sometimes pain, always distant. Mostly numb. Once, something shifts in your mind like you’ve never felt, an almost unbearable delving into your thoughts. With some effort, you’re able to stave it away before slipping back into the void.

* * *

“It was Aaris III. She was the only one. We searched, but there wasn’t much. Some old documents. The saber, of course.”

Kylo Ren watches the woman, the steady rise and fall of her chest as a medical droid mends the wound at her shoulder. The blast at her stomach has already been patched. Hux is at his side, disinterested– He had been from the start.

“She was Resistance,” he adds. The general would have her executed, not mended.

“By chance." He’s holding her saber. Ancient. From generations before, lost to time until _her._ Her very presence, even in sleep, clicks something long nameless into place in Ren’s mind.

He hates it. He longs for the solitude of his chambers.

“Take her to a cell when she’s done here. I’ll see her when she wakes.”

Before Hux can comment, the Supreme Leader is gone.

* * *

You wake slowly, senses coming back one by one. First, you hear the soft mechanical whir of the ship, and then eyes open to reveal shades of grey and silver before your vision focuses. A cell. Dark and cool, a sharp contrast to the humidity of the jungle.

Then, something else. You sense him before you see him, suddenly acutely aware of his presence– It isn’t a feeling you’re accustomed to. There’s a darkness there, and it startles you enough to bring you fully to consciousness, sitting up in bed quickly enough to see stars. The pains from the blasters stun you again and you hiss through clenched teeth as your nerves alight and sing. Every muscle tenses as you press your back to the wall, setting your eyes on him at last.

Kylo Ren. You’d heard rumors and descriptions, but no one had ever mentioned how his very presence would send chills through you and trigger an ache at your temples. Every fiber of your being seems to tense away from him. This must be the end: any moment now, he’ll wield his fabled lightsaber and take off your head– But why bring you here to do it?

“You’ll heal quickly, though you’ll scar.”

Though soft, his voice startles you. _Heal_ implies survival. You swallow hard before speaking, voice smaller than you’d like it to be. “Why am I here?”

A moment of charged silence. The ache at your temples intensifies, making your brow furrow and jaw clench. It’s him.

_Stop._

It lets up. You can feel him watching you but can’t discern anything behind the mask. The pain in your head ebbs away.

“Not many people can block me."

You say nothing, eyes trained on that expressionless mask. It takes everything in you to keep from trembling.

“You’re force sensitive. Very few of us left," he continues. You can't quite discern his town, but the word _us_ makes you nauseous. There is nothing that ties you to him, to any of the First Order. Any suggestion otherwise is as bitter as bile in your throat, anger heating your blood once again.

“I’ve brought you here to make a proposition.”

“A _proposition,_ ” you finally scoff. Everyone you’ve ever known is dead or missing at the hands of the First Order, of _him_. “Kill me now. Don’t wait any longer.”

More silence. You imagine the red blade lighting up the cell and burning your face before it ends your life, trying not to quake in the face of death–– But Ren makes no move to draw. 

“I can train you in the ways of the Force. Show you power beyond imagination.”

It's the last thing you expected. You have half a mind to spit at his feet. “Kill me now,” you say again through gritted teeth.

“No.”

From everything you’d heard, you’d expected him to be more volatile. His composure maddens you.

“You have so much rage. . . Such pain. You don’t realize your potential.” he says, moving for the first time to take a step towards you. Instinctively, you want to move away, but there's nowhere to turn. Instead, you stand from the cot, forcing yourself closer, chin up and defiant, heart hammering. Though you can’t see his face, you set your gaze on his helmet as if you could, challenging him.

“I’m sure a number of _us_ –– Force wielders–– have died at your hands. Resistance fighters and innocents alike. No use in sparing me.”

He takes another step towards you, and then another, and while ice courses through you and your body begs to back away, you plant your feet and stay, though your hands have begun to tremble; whether from the anger or the fear isn't clear.

“None like you," he says, softer still. His head tilts minutely, the first hint at expression. "Never have I heard one from so far away or felt one as I have you. Never has someone disturbed the Force as you have, even in such reckless fumbling.”

You’re reminded of all those days of focus, hours spent moving pebbles and logs, the way you’d practiced with the saber. Reckless. You want to be offended, but he’s right– There’d been no set plan. No guidance. You have no reply and can only glare as he comes closer still, invading your space as he continues.

“I’ll train you. You’ll hone your ability and feel power you’ve never dreamed of. No more time wasted in a jungle, scavenging for your next meal. You’ll be apprentice to the Supreme Leader.”

 _Apprentice to the Supreme Leader._ Your stomach lurches at the thought. You'd rather die here with honor than live a traitor, another monster of the First Order–– But then, hope. A plan starts to form.

Take the opportunity and train with him. Learn the ways of the Force. Learn _him._ Gain his trust. Resist the darkness, and when the time comes, avenge the Resistance. Avenge your family. Send your saber through Ren’s heart and burn the First Order.

“Apprentice to you," you say, hesitant, quiet.

“Yes.”

“You’ll give me my lightsaber.”

“In due time, yes.”

You bite the inside of your lip, gaze shifting past him as you think. Everything in you protests the offer, craving death over surrender. _This isn’t surrender, is it?_

When you’ve been quiet for too long, he speaks again:

“Would you rather rot on Aaris III?”

You look at him again, suddenly grateful that his face is obscured. Having to look him in the eye might make this impossible.

“No,” you say at last, voice barely above a whisper. It's impulsive. Unsure. The next words burn in your mouth and your fists clench at your sides. “I’ll do it.”

You expect some grand approval or smug remark, perhaps the immediate collapse of your own conscience into the darkness. Instead, you feel nothing, but you aren't sure if that's any better. Kylo Ren only moves to the door in silence.

“You’ve made the right choice. Someone will be in shortly to show you to your chambers.”

Before you can reply, the door closes behind him, locking into place. 

In all your time in the solitude of the jungle, you’d never felt this alone. A wave of nausea comes suddenly and sends you sinking weakly onto the cot, colder than ever and suddenly exhausted. In the quiet of the cell, you begin to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're gettin this show on the road babyyyyyyy


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw food / brief mention of body bc you've been. starving in the jungle for a year kjsgh
> 
> this is more set up but we'll be seeing our boy soon >B)

It’s impossible to tell how long you wait in the cell, and though you’re accustomed to solitude, the silence is unbearable. For a year, you’ve had the comfort of distant birds and babbling water– complete serenity. Now, there’s only the incessant hum of machinery and the occasional ripple in your mind when someone comes near enough.

You feel the trooper coming before you hear the footsteps, and you’re on your feet when the door slides open, one hand pressed against the wound at your stomach. Their only greeting is the command to follow them, and you do, though walking proves painful. You try to keep up without showing much difficulty.

The Finalizer has loomed in your mind for so long that seeing it is surreal. It’s impossibly massive, seemingly infinite. As the trooper leads you up and away from the cells, you sense more and more officers, workers, troopers. The ones you pass in the halls cast curious glances your way. This feels dangerous–– You half expect to see Kylo Ren around every corner, saber drawn and ready to take back his offer. It never happens, though you wish you had a weapon to wield, just in case.

After a while, you reach a quieter part of the ship, far from the cell you’d left behind. The buzzing of thoughts is almost imperceptible here; surely an intentional choice. In your time on Aaris, you’d forgotten how noisy the presence of others can be, how tiring–– Or perhaps they hadn’t been this loud before. Perhaps your sensitivity has improved.

The trooper leads you around a final corner and down a corridor, stopping at one of two doors. They swipe a card and gracelessly push you inside when the door slides open. As you stumble, the door closes and locks into place behind you.You try the handle to no avail. Locked again. You curse the trooper and turn to take in the room.

It’s brighter than you’d expected. Bigger, too. To your left is a bed, to your right, a table, a closet. You feel almost paralyzed, as if invading someone else’s chambers. You aren’t supposed to be here. You’re Resistance, after all.

_ Not anymore. _

You remember the room you’d grown up in, smaller than this, but bright with desert sunlight filtering through the window. Comforting. Warm. The memory triggers a kick of grief that sparks quickly into anger, hotter and more painful than your wounds.That house is gone.You’re reminded of your mission and, with new confidence, you step forward to explore the room.

There’s a dark doorway straight ahead, and the lights come up as you enter. Your heart leaps up into your throat at the sight of a person, severe and dark and somehow familiar–

Just a mirror above the sink.  _ You _ . Your hands shake with fading adrenaline as you approach, struck with a growing dread as you see yourself for the first time in over a year.

The jungle hasn’t been kind to you. Hunting for food has left you thinner than before, sharper. Your clothes are ragged and dirty, relics of a past time, a dead movement. Your hair is longer now, matted. 

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring into the eyes of the stranger you’ve become. When you finally tear away from the reflection, you notice the rest of the bathroom– shining floors and all the necessary facilities. A shower is well needed, you think. That’ll be the next order of business once you’ve finished familiarizing yourself with the space.

Back into the main room, you notice that the table is set with a tray of food. It’s the first hot meal you’ve seen in Gods-know how long, and suddenly, all the hunger of the last year seems to catch up to you. You cross and sit at the bench, picking up fork and knife. The utensils feel foreign in your hands after so long of hunting to survive. You don’t recognize much of the food but it doesn’t matter; you eat quickly, ravenous, barely tasting it. It isn’t long before the tray is cleared.

When you’ve finished, you notice a closet across the room and stand to cross to it. Inside, you find garments not unlike those you’d seen Ren wearing: black cloaks and robes, all simple, functional. Standard First Order issue. The reality of the situation hits you again and you slam the doors shut, staying there a moment with your head bowed, tensed and breathing through the pain.

_ I will survive this. _

It takes a moment to calm yourself, and when you do, you turn away from the closet and head back into the bathroom, pausing again before the mirror. You try to run your fingers through your hair without much success. So much time in the wilderness has nearly ruined it, far too tangled now to save. You remember how your mother had braided it for you years ago. That hurts, too.

You turn on your heel and fetch the knife from your dinner before returning. Impulsively, you hold a handful of hair away from your head and saw away at it until it falls, limp and matted, to the floor. You do it again, again, again, not noticing your tears until they’re streaming hot down your face. Memories come in short bursts as you work– your home, your mother’s deft hands, your father’s embrace. All dust now. All gone. The rage helps the process. You don’t mind the pain, or how you bleed when you nick your scalp. 

When it’s gone, you throw the knife down and brush the remnants from your scalp and shoulders. You avoid the mirror now and head towards the shower, shedding clothes on the way.

The rush of warm water hits you like a gift from the gods, a luxury not even experienced before the war. You stand under the stream for a while, wounds stinging, but muscles slowly relaxing, your breathing coming slower and deeper. Running your hands over your newly shorn scalp is strange. It feels as if this body isn’t your own, but someone else’s. Someone stronger. 

You wash up and finally step out of the shower, feeling different. Renewed. After drying off, you return to the wardrobe to don new robes. The fabric is coarse and heavy, much different than your own garments. Finally, you return to the mirror, and what you see frightens you.

There you stand, barely recognizable. You’ve never worn black like this, and you don’t like the way it looks. You don’t like how  _ you _ look– too severe. Too dark. You could easily pass as a member of the First Order.

_ You are. _

No. You shake the thought away and turn from the mirror, troubled and tired. You go to the bed, small and neat, and sit on the edge. There’s no telling what time it is, but you’re more exhausted than you’ve ever been. You pull back the blanket and lie down, mind racing and body heavy. The bed is luxurious compared to what you’ve grown accustomed to. All of this– the food, the bed, the shower– is nicer than you’ve ever had. Your hate for the First Order rises in your chest again and you close your eyes, savoring the feeling. You’ll need it to make it through this.

You’ll need it to destroy them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there he is !!
> 
> can't wait to write the fighting >B)

Your sleep is plagued by restless dreams, memories warped and familiar voices speaking too softly for you to make out the words.

The click of the door wakes you, but when you rise, you find that it was only locking into place– The tray on the table has been replaced with more food and you are alone. Feeling somewhat aimless, you eat and dress and rifle through the room once more without coming up with anything new. Your wounds are healing quickly, stirring up some curiosity about the medical technology used here. Their ache isn’t more than a distant annoyance now.

And you wait. You sit a while, pace a while, growing more anxious with every passing hour.

After some time, the stillness is interrupted with a sudden pressure at your temples, that same intrusion you’d felt as you’d drifted in and out of consciousness the day prior. It’s him. It must be. Your brow furrows as you strain to shut him out, the ache turning quickly into a blinding pain that has you raising your hands to your head, teeth clenched–– And then it’s gone again. Feebly, you counter by trying to locate him, remembering what you can of the ship, guessing where he might be, but nothing is clear. You’re like someone fumbling in the dark. You may be able to block him out, but he holds the same power, trained and refined.

You’re still reeling from the incident when the door clicks and slides open, sending such a strong wave of anxiety through you that your heart begins to pound, seemingly loud enough to hear. You’re on your feet in seconds, facing the doorway but keeping considerable distance.

There he stands: Kylo Ren. You’re stanced as if ready for an attack, but he doesn’t make any move to lunge or fight, only steps inside and closes the door behind him with the slightest movement of his hand. You say nothing, fear shifting to hatred at the sight of him. He doesn’t seem to be terribly interested in you, rather, he lifts gloved hands to either side of his helmet. The room is still enough that you hear the click of its release. He lifts it from his head and lowers it, holding it in his hands.

For the first time, you see the face of the man responsible for all of this. His gaze lands on you and ice seems to jolt through you at the sight of him. Pale face, dark eyes,  _ young _ . The face doesn’t seem to match the image you’d had in mind, that dreadful, faceless figure you’d come to know as Kylo Ren. 

In fact, he doesn’t seem much older than you. Suddenly, you’re all too aware that he’d once been someone’s child. Perhaps he’d once been innocent– You shake the thought away before it has a chance to linger. It won’t help you.

His gaze shifts to the room, but you’re almost sure you see the flicker of a smirk before he looks away. Smug bastard. He paces towards the table, contemplative, casual. He sets his helmet down, studying it as he speaks.

“How are you healing?”

“Fine.” Even if you were half dead, you’d be too proud to admit otherwise.

He cants his head and that familiar pulse returns to your temples, delving into the surface of your thoughts– You block it out, still aching from earlier, but faster in your deflection.

“ _ Stop _ ,” you spit. He does, and looks at you again, almost curious.

“You learn quickly,” he says, perhaps more to himself than to you. “Where did you get the saber?”

“I found it.” That isn’t wholly a lie. “Are you going to give it back?”

“It’s ancient,” he continues without regard for the question. “It traveled far to reach you. The Force works like that, sometimes.”

You don’t care for the tangent. 

“What do you want?”

He straightens and begins to pace towards you, slow as before. You swallow your fear and stand grounded.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” he says. It’s as if his mind is elsewhere. If he’s bothered by your tension, your hostility, he doesn’t show it. “Combat training in the morning, then lessons on the old texts, meditation. . .”

He’s close enough now that you’re reminded once more of his size– Taller than you. Stronger. Combat training doesn’t just sound dangerous, it sounds  _ impossible _ , especially while you continue to heal. Something tells you that objection would be futile, and so you say nothing.

“You’ll do well. Your anger will help you.”

He stops before you, eyes searching your face. You set your jaw and hold his gaze, fists clenching, pulse quickening.  _ You have no idea, _ you think.

”You’ll have to let go of the past, though. All of it. You’ll take a new name.”

“What?” Being the final survivor of your family–– perhaps of your whole culture–– your name is precious to you. You shake your head. “No.  _ No _ . You’ll call me––”

“Inun Ren,” he interrupts, raising a hand to stop your objection. You scoff.  _ Ren. _ The prospect of taking that title ignites another deep vein of hatred for him, for all of this. Again, you’re shaking your head, clenching your teeth to keep from screaming at him. He’s too calm. Much too casual about stripping the last bits of your identity away.

You swallow the rage, your only remaining protest a steady glare. The air between the two of you buzzes with tension as he watches you.

“That’s it,” he says at last. “That rage. . . You have potential." A beat of silence before he speaks again, just one word: "Inun.”

He turns away at last, picking up his helmet from the table on his way to the door. “Tomorrow morning,” he says before donning it again. It clicks into place as he stands in the doorway. You almost prefer him this way–– faceless. Inhuman. “Someone will come for you.”

And then, in a swish of black robes, he’s gone again. The door locks and again, you are alone. Finally, you can breathe, not realizing until now how rigid you’d been holding yourself. Your shoulders drop as you make your way to the bed, sitting on the edge with a hand pressed to the wound at your stomach. If every encounter with him will leave you so shaken, so exhausted, you wonder if this endeavor is even possible.

_ I can’t do this. _

_ You must. _


	5. Chapter 5

After he leaves, you spend the day in limbo, too restless to do much more than pace and wait– Not that you could do much else, anyway. The door is locked. That night as you lay down to sleep, you repeat your name in your head again and again, almost afraid that you may forget it with the placement of the new title. _Inun Ren_. You could be sick. You shout your name in your mind, eyes wrenched closed, and hear it in your own voice, your father’s, your mother’s, how it had always left their mouths lovingly, how they’d used it to call you to dinner or to scold you as a child. 

Perhaps, though, there’s something sacred in that. Perhaps the First Order doesn’t deserve to taste your name on their tongues.

Perhaps the new title will be what you need to get through this. The girl you’d been before need not be tainted with the work ahead. You aren’t even sure if she’s strong enough–– But Inun Ren might be. It’s only a title, only a persona to slip into when it conveniences you. When this is over, you’ll drop it like a bad habit.

_And then what?_

No use of thinking of that now. Focus on the main objective here and get it done. Take your name up again later. You won’t forget it. You mustn’t. 

Old memories provide some solace and finally you fall asleep.

You wake with a start to the sound of the door, expecting to see Ren again, but you’re met instead with the sight of someone unfamiliar: She’s dressed in the black garb of any lower level officer, tall with dark hair, asymmetrical tattoos inked across her cheekbones, down her neck. Those seem familiar, at least– You’d seen similar on some of your fathers’ contemporaries. 

You stand, instinctively raising a hand to smooth your hair before remembering the cut. 

“Hello,” she says before you can speak, friendly enough to throw you off guard. Ever suspicious, you keep your silence. 

“I’ll be taking you to the training chamber,” she continues.

“Right.” You need to dress. “Just a moment.”

You can’t look at her any longer– You’re suddenly hyper aware of your sleep attire, your botched haircut, and so you cross to the wardrobe and find something that seems appropriate for– What? You realize you’ve no idea how this will all transpire. Something athletic, you decide, and disappear into the bathroom to change. Quick. Quiet. Again, you avoid the mirror, and wordlessly emerge, approaching with a nod as if to say, _I’m ready._

She opens the door and sets off, and you stall for just a moment at the threshold, unaccustomed to freedom, if that’s what this can be called. Quickly, you step out and catch up, the door sliding back into place behind you. 

After a moment of quiet walking, she speaks again. “You do that yourself?” 

It catches you off guard. You hesitate, then,

“–– What?”

“The hair.” She gestures with a tilt of her head towards you. “Or were you going for something rustic?”

“Oh.” You clear your throat. “No, I– Yes. I did it myself.”

“Hm.” You don’t want to look up, but you can sense her humor. “I’ll bring you a pair of shears later, if you’d like to fix it.”

Again, you’re taken by surprise, unsure how to respond. You reach the doors to the chamber before you have the opportunity.

“Well,” she starts, and you finally have the nerve to look her in the face again. She seems too kind to be an agent of the First Order. “This is it. I’ll be seeing you later.”

And then she’s gone, footsteps receding down the hall as you stand before the doors, unsure. The anxiety hits you all at once, sending ice through your veins, but you don’t have much time to cope because the doors slide open and you’re beckoned inside with a single word:

“Come.”

You step inside, the doors closing behind you and locking into place, loud enough to startle you. The room is circular, mostly open floor. Ren stands at the far end, facing away, lifting the helmet from his head and resting it with a heavy thud on a pedestal. You watch as he shrugs off his outer robe and sets it aside, revealing different attire from what you’ve seen before: A sleeveless shirt exposes broad shoulders, muscles casting shadow against pale skin.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself. Since seeing him yesterday, your mind has raced with the possibilities of this, wondering what to expect and how terrible each outcome might be, what pain you may have to go through to learn the ways of the Force this way––

And then he turns to you, and once again, you’re struck by his face, much too human. He’s dressed differently today, black as always but much more casual, arms exposed. He’s massive, and you’re reminded of your own wiry strength, surely ill-prepared for any altercation with him. Another wave of anxiety crashes over you, and you force yourself to meet his eyes despite it. He seems to regard you with some quiet intrigue, brow furrowed minutely. 

“I’ve been meditating,” he says, walking slow towards the center of the room. “Since I first sensed you, I’ve been looking for answers. Preparing myself.”

“Preparing yourself for what?” Your voice is low but not weak. Not this time.

“To teach you the ways of the Force. To be your master.”

Your breath catches and you’re frozen for a moment before the hate floods you again, strong as ever, throbbing in your mind like an independent heartbeat. Watching his face, you swear you see his mouth twitch, the flicker of something like a smile. _Bastard_ . Yet again, you find yourself overwhelmed with anger, with disdain. _Use it_ , you think. _Use it to survive this._

He stops his walk and tilts his head a fraction as if hearing something you can’t, exhaling with a short hum. Contemplative again. His eyes never leave you.

“I sense your anger. It will serve you well.” 

He beckons you to him with a wave of his hand, and you realize distantly that you’ve never seen him without gloves. Your feet are heavy as lead but you step forward nonetheless, wondering distantly about the implication of that remark, but you save that thought for later. You need your focus now.

You stop before him, never tearing your gaze from his face, wanting to maintain some small semblance of control here. You don’t yet trust yourself to speak, not wanting to lash out and not prepared for the possible percussions of that. Fortunately, he continues on without much regard for your persistent silence.

_Perhaps all those years on Aaris III left you mute._

Was that you or him?

“We’ll start with combat,” he says, distracting you from the thought. “You’ll need to build up your strength quickly, your reflexes. You’ll learn to sense your opponents’ moves. You’ll learn to use your pain.” You nod, swallowing hard. You aren’t inept by any means–– You’d been taught basic hand-to-hand growing up and had practiced as best you could on Aaris, but this is entirely different. You ache to hold your lightsaber.

“Are you ready?”

Despite the fear that suddenly grips you, you nod again, shifting on your feet for better stability. He does the same and you watch him closely, doing your best to mirror him in stance, unsure of what to expect.

The fight begins and everything happens too quickly to process. He strikes first and you dodge it, but just barely, feeling the air move by your ear. The adrenaline comes quick now, charging your movements. You try to land a blow, but he catches your hand and twists, and in a few swift moves, the world is upturned and your breath is knocked from your chest as you land on the floor, pinned under him. Your healing wounds send stabs of pain through your abdomen and shoulder and you groan through gritted teeth. Stunned and unable to escape, you accept defeat, and just like that, he’s back on his feet, leaving you on the floor.

“Again,” he says, unaffected. Your wounds throb as you rise to your feet with some difficulty. He shifts back into position and you do the same, mind racing with possible strategy.

It happens much the same– A flurry of dodges and hits and twists before a fast pin to the floor, and then that same command: _Again_. Hours seem to pass this way, though there’s no way to keep the time. You begin to lose count of the rounds, feeling your body begin to bruise, the healing injuries at your shoulder and stomach screaming and new ones joining their ranks. What strength you’d had diminishes with each round.

He’s relentless, and it seems that this has less to do with combat training than he’d suggested. That suspicion is confirmed during another loss when he twists your injured arm behind your back and pins you with your face pressed to the floor. When you cry out, he speaks, the orders coming low and harsh.

“Use the pain. Don’t block it out,” he commands, but you’re struggling uselessly against him, reaching back with your free arm to drag your nails into any part of him that you can reach. He twists your arm further and you scream, hating yourself for it, hating your weakness, hating _him_.

“ _Stop_ ,” you gasp, but his grip is relentless and every attempt at escape worsens the blinding pain.

“ _Focus on it,_ ” he insists. “Use it to strengthen you.”

Despite your body’s protests and your own resentment, you try your best to comply. _Focus on it. Use it_. Eyes wrenched closed and breathing ragged, you savor the pain and try once again to throw him off. He barely moves, but he _does move_. You cry out again with the effort of it all, trying again and again with miniscule progress, and though you can’t escape him, you feel progress being made, the Force seeming to come to you more readily, strengthening your body, your mind.

You are, however, only so strong, and eventually you break, unable to fight any longer.

“ _I can’t_ ,” you gasp, trying once again to twist away from him, energy quickly depleting. 

Finally, he releases you, rough and without regard for your injuries, and stands, leaving you gasping on the floor. You roll to your back and cradle your arm, trembling as you catch your breath, fighting tears that threaten to come. You can lose and scream and struggle, but you won’t allow yourself to cry. Not in front of him. 

He paces back to the far end of the room, barely affected by the sparring. You don’t have the strength to rise to your feet yet, but you turn your head to watch as he dons his robe again before picking up his helmet. It almost seems small in his hands. 

He crosses to the doors, only stopping for a moment where you lie defeated.

“We’ll continue tomorrow.” 

He continues his path to the door and steps out, leaving you there, hurting and humiliated. 

After a few moments, you find the strength to climb to your feet, moving slow. Stars spot your vision as you rise, head pounding, body screaming in protest. You hadn’t known what to expect today, but this isn’t far from what you’d imagined. You’d be angry if you had the energy, but all you can do is make your way to the door, gait slow and careful. 

The doors slide open just before you reach them, the officer from this morning greeting you with some sort of curious awe.

“There you are. Think you can make it back?" Unwilling or unable to speak, or perhaps both, you only nod despite your uncertainty. She seems to sense it and bends to pull your good arm over her shoulder, supporting some of your weight as she leads the way back to your chambers. You try to remain stoic, but every jostle of your injured shoulder and arm makes you wince and hiss, tears threatening to come once again.

The walk seems much longer than it had this morning.

Finally, you reach the door, the officer leading you inside and helping you settle into a seat at the table. A tray of food has already been placed there.

“Eat,” she says. “You’ll need your strength.”

_No shit_ , you think, leaning back in the chair. It will be a few minutes before you feel able to sit up, much less finish a meal. 

“I’ll have a medical unit come by in a bit,” she adds. “And then I’ll bring those shears with your dinner." For once, the promise of solitude is welcome. If you weren’t so frustrated, you might be able to appreciate her kindness. Now, though, your eyes are fixed on the wall ahead of you and you only hum your thanks, exhausted and aching. Her steps recede and the door slides open again, but she stalls a moment. “I’m Noreth,” she says. “We’ll be seeing each other regularly, so I thought you’d like to know.”

There’s a moment of conflict in you–– Your birth name sits at the tip of your tongue, but you hold back. Despite Noreth’s warmth, she’s still another officer of the First Order and no ally of yours.

“I’m Inun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you continue to flirt w the dark side thinking you won't succumb to it. also kylo ren pretty
> 
> i'm so tempted to write an au that's just inun and noreth's unlikely sapphic space love story
> 
> anyway i'll probably be posting some sketches / art / thoughts whatever from this soon so !! check out my tumblr mezzobee !! i'd also love to hear what y'all think since this is my first fic lmao


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have you been smooching the enemy??
> 
> tw dubcon i think. anyway i'm back and ready to be an agent of chaos with this garbage fire fic. it only gets spicer from here >B)

When Noreth leaves, you find yourself unable to eat. The med unit comes after some time and mends your sprained shoulder, though the pain lingers. Almost worse, though, is the humiliation. Of course you hadn’t expected to win against him or even cause much injury, but the act itself of being so effortlessly fought and defeated again and again has wounded your pride. You find yourself reflecting, trying to remember and memorize his favorite attacks and defenses. When you try to identify a weakness, you come up empty– He hasn’t shown any, at least, not yet. 

You remember, too, his weight on top of you and how warm his hands had been, how you’d felt his breath on your face during the closest encounters.

The ensuing weeks are much the same and the days begin to blur together. Each day, you wake, you eat, you spend much of the day training with Ren. When you’re too weak or hurt to spar, or when Kylo is in a particular mood, he teaches you to meditate. It isn’t dissimilar to the rest of your training– He’s quiet but sure, strict as ever, but you begin to see glimmers of a gentler part of him. Something contemplative.

Some days, Noreth never fetches you for the walk to the training chambers, but you wake to books stacked on your table and instructions to read them. It’s mostly history, some neutral accounts, some weighing heavily in favor of the First Order. There are older volumes on the ancient Jedi and Sith, names mentioned here and there that seem to leap from the page, staying in your mind for days after. 

And though you spend more time with Kylo Ren than perhaps anyone else, you still know next to nothing about him. The words you’ve exchanged have always been related to your training, and, considering your hate for him, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. 

He frustrates you. His silence frustrates you. You’re showing definitive progress, though he rarely comments on it other than a few words to guide you in one direction or the other in your technique. 

Still, there is something else. Like the first time you saw his face, you’re sometimes struck with flashes of something different, little hints of what makes him human: His frustration in training, the way he shakes his head and arms out before engaging in another round, the way you see him looking at you in your peripheral from time to time, dark eyes fixed on you with some indiscernible expression. 

Your loneliness doesn’t help, either. 

You’ve begun to dream of him, and even that makes you hate him more. It isn’t fair that he should invade every moment, both waking and sleeping. You dream of fighting him, sometimes killing him, and those ones help your resolve. The days following those nights always see leaps in your progress in combat, in the Force.

Other nights, your dreams are more nebulous. You see glimpses of his eyes, his hands. You hear his voice, deep and resounding. Some nights, you dream of his familiar weight on top of you, though not engaged in combat– You feel his hands. You see his bare shoulders, his hair hanging as his face hovers above yours.

The mornings after those are the worst. You wake sick and conflicted and  _ longing _ , despite yourself, cursing your weakness. You fumble during training, hoping to the gods that he can’t sense your distraction.

Sometimes, he seems distracted, too, but you chalk it up to the weight of his duties. This weakness is your own, something to be crushed down and destroyed.

* * *

You wake to a morning not unlike the others: Breakfast, dressing, and Noreth’s short escort. The two of you have become acquainted despite your earliest reservations, in no small part due to her incessant, unexpected kindness and your own loneliness. 

She leaves you standing, as always, before the doors. When she’s gone, they open, and you’re greeted with pitch darkness. 

Thinking it must be some mistake, you peer inside, brow furrowed, glancing to your left and right and being met with nothing.

“Come.”

His voice comes from the center of the room and you step forward, hesitant. The doors close behind you, robbing the room of what little light the hallway had provided and bathing you in darkness. It’s impossible to see your hand in front of your face, much less  _ him _ , but you can reach out with your mind and feel his familiar presence before you, unmoving. Tension begins to set in at your shoulders and hands as you plant your feet, ready for attack. A test, you think. It must be a test. 

Without introduction or explanation, you sense him rush forward and you leap out of the way, stumbling in the dark. You realize a moment late that you’ve successfully dodged his attack, but your pride doesn’t last long.

Robbed of sight, you lean heavily on the Force to feel the room. You track his presence the best you can, better, perhaps, than either of you could expect. He comes again, fast in the dark, and you aren’t quite able to dodge the blow. When you sprawl across the floor, you roll quickly to the side and hear him land where you had fallen. Before he can reach for you, you come again to your feet and cross the room, putting distance between the two of you. Adrenaline floods your system, and as time goes on, your sense of the room, of  _ him _ refines and focuses– Still amateur, but better than it has been in previous sessions. That explains the darkness. You’re almost thankful for it. Almost.

You don’t have much time to ponder before he’s moving again, countering you. You sense him step one way and you move opposite, bracing yourself for attack. Your main focus for this fight is to stay out of reach. If he can’t catch you, he can’t win. Still, you’re familiar enough with Kylo’s fighting by now to know that he isn’t patient. You will have to learn eventually to beat him face to face, though you certainly won’t make the first move.

He moves again, quickly enough that you lose track just long enough for him to lunge. You feel it a moment too late and despite a quick attempt to dodge, his body collides with yours. With no time to run, the only option is to engage. In the past weeks, you’ve learned to hold your own for at least a few minutes, but it proves difficult in the dark. You try desperately to sense his movements but are distracted by your own efforts to dodge them, fighting blindly. You block one blow and then anothe, but just as you move to strike, his ankle hooks around yours to throw you off balance. You land gracelessly on your back, sitting up reflexively only to be met with him kneeling over you.

Grappling with him like this has always pointed to your defeat. His weight and dexterity combined are impossible to beat from this position, but that won’t stop you from trying, and trying hard. The two of you wrestle this way for what feels like a lifetime, the darkness seeming to have triggered some old instinct as you block blows and twist away from his grip, abandoning etiquette when you dig your nails into his skin. That old rage is returning, boiling your blood, and in a final attempt at freeing yourself, you find his hair and pull with all your strength.

The angry sound that leaves him is almost a snarl, and his hands finally capture your wrists and slam them to the ground on either side of your head, pinning you under him. He straddles you and, though the position is inescapable, you struggle against him, thrashing and pulling at his grip until he pulls your hands up only to slam them again into the floor in what seems to be an order:  _ Be still. _

Finally, you accept defeat, the room silent besides his and your panting. You wait for him to release you, to start the next round, but he doesn’t budge. Confusion comes first as you wonder, is this another test? Another exercise? You pull at his grip as a silent reminder:  _ Let me go. _

Though pinned and helpless, you notice, suddenly, how his hands feel against your wrists, how his weight presses against you. You notice, as if for the first time, just how big he is, and you suddenly feel incredibly small. In the dark, it’s impossible to read him or to predict his next step. He seems to hold you like this forever and you can only wait, perplexed and frustrated, for him to speak, to move, something,  _ anything _ . 

“Enough,” you finally spit, breaking the silence– but just as you utter the word, his mouth crashes against yours in a kiss so deep and violent it robs you of your breath. Your first instinct is to struggle, to try and toss your head to the side and out of reach, but he overwhelms you. It’s infuriating and wrong and hopeless, but you find yourself craving more, eventually reciprocating, capturing his lip in your teeth. He groans low into your mouth, surprising you, before returning the favor with a bite of his own, hard enough that you flinch and taste blood. It’s more fight than kiss, all teeth and tongue, though you find yourself arching up against him, craving more contact––

And then, just as abruptly as it had begun, it stops. He’s up and gone, leaving you breathless on the floor, confused. His steps recede and you hear the rustling of his robes, the click of his helmet, sense him moving towards the doors. They open, the light from the hall blinding you for a moment, and when your vision focuses, you only see his cape as he leaves. The lights flicker on overhead and you sit where he’d left you, disoriented and alone.

When it becomes clear that he isn’t coming back, you stand, shaky, and make your way to the doors. Noreth meets you in the hall.

“That was short,” she starts in her usual fashion, but her face changes as you approach, perhaps concerned, definitely curious, but she knows better than to ask about the happenings behind those doors. The walk to your quarters is silent after that. Once inside and alone, you lean your back against the door, shaken to your core.  _ What the hell was that? _ Anger flares for a moment, and then something else, something deeper in the pit of your stomach. It’s been so long since you’ve felt the touch of another person in  _ any _ capacity that it’s hard to place. 

Want. Need. You slide to the floor and hide your face in your hands, blushing as you remember his lips on yours, plush and perfect–  _ Enough _ . You don’t want to indulge the thoughts any longer. The last thing you need is sympathy for the enemy, much less attraction to him. 

Your dreams. You’d thought that that particular weakness was yours alone. Perhaps he’d somehow wormed his way into your mind without your knowledge and seen them and this was all a test that you’d failed miserably. The thought of how you’d pressed your body into his and returned the kiss so desperately suddenly sickens you. 

But he had bitten back. His fingers had pressed painfully into the soft insides of your wrists, surely bruising, holding you under him while he’d struck up the nerve to kiss you.  _ Kiss _ seems like the wrong word.  _ Kiss _ implies tenderness and affection, of which there had been none, and that in itself is an act of mercy. You breathe deep, collecting yourself, trying to make sense of it all.  Perhaps this is a weakness he shares. You wonder if he’s ever dreamed the way you do. It seems much too human for him, difficult to imagine, but maybe he’s had the same visions. You wonder if it distracts him, if it affects him at all. Clearly it does, or else today’s encounter wouldn’t have happened. 

Then, a revelation: Perhaps it is a weakness you can exploit. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little violence and then smut, happy new year

You don’t see him for the next few days, or maybe it’s a week. He’s on a mission somewhere, Noreth tells you. It seems fairly likely; you haven’t sensed even the faintest sign of him since the incident. You’re left with books you can’t focus on. Meditation doesn’t help, either, because your mind wanders and worries and distracts. 

Damn him for this. There’s still the nagging fear that the entire thing had been some plot or trap you’d fallen into, your punishment being days of isolation and monotony. That’s not right, though. You’re sure it isn’t. You don’t know  _ how _ you know, but you do. It had been a lapse of judgment, a crossing of wires between fight and–– something else. The product of loneliness and violence. Is he lonely? He must be. He’d chosen his isolation, though. You’ve been forced into it.

Still, for the first time, you allow yourself to entertain thoughts of him. At night, you lie awake and remember crashing against him in the dark, sometimes forcing the thought away, sometimes following it through to an imagined conclusion. His mouth hot against yours, skin on skin, teeth and tongue and hands and––

You hate him. There’s no doubt about that.

Still, the feel of his kiss, that reckless clash in the dark. . . it haunts you. Each night, he pervades your dreams. The heat of your desire mingles with the fire of your hate and the two become indiscernible. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want more.

After days of nothing, the monotony starts to really affect you. You’re no stranger to isolation, but at least life on Aaris had been broken up with hunting and exploration. The walls of your quarters are memorized now, books all read. Small talk with Noreth grows stale soon, though she keeps you updated on the ship’s happenings–– a careless mistake in the hangar, a sighting of General Hux’s cat, the rumors that have begun to circulate about  _ you _ . Even here, people talk. Casual gossip of the rebel-turned-apprentice circulates, piquing curiosity from all ranks. 

But even that grows boring after some time. You pace the room like a caged animal. You want to train, to fight. You want to see him. Each day, you inquire about Kylo Ren only to be given the same answer: He’s away. 

You decide, finally, that you’ve had enough. You’ve spent another day pacing the room like a caged animal. It doesn’t take long to decide on what rule to break. The mechanics of the door catch your interest and you sit on the floor by the port, casual toying becoming a real mission. You don’t have much of a plan beyond escaping this room, just exploration–– And that’s enough motivation. A change in scenery is well needed.

It takes about an hour of jimmying and testing with your hands and makeshift tools (and, perhaps, your growing ability in the Force) before you’re finally met with the satisfying click and mechanical slide of the door opening. You’d only half expected to get this far. Carefully, you peer to the left and right, greeted only with that familiar empty hallway. 

You don’t bother to put your boots on–– this needs to be a silent exploration–– but you wonder if your garb will somehow set you apart,  _ if _ you’re seen and hopefully, you won’t be. The robes seem to be standard issue, anyway, black with just a touch of the First Order’s flair for the dramatic. You leave one of your shoes in the door to keep it cracked and step into the hall.

There’s a sudden thrill in being out unaccompanied, an exhilaration that washes over you and sending your heart racing. That alone could be reward enough and you could return to the room without consequence, holding onto that feeling until Kylo decides to grace you with his presence.

But you aren’t satisfied. Not yet.

The training chambers are to the right, as are Kylo’s quarters. Going left would take you the way you’d come that first day––  _ how long ago had that been? _ –– and out into the rest of the ship. It’s massive, surely too much ground to even begin to cover in this small venture. Troopers everywhere, too, and you’ve no idea if you have a target on your head anymore. At best, they’d drag you right back to where you started. Going right seems more appealing by the second. And besides, curiosity about Kylo Ren is getting the better of you. Even if he isn’t there, something draws you close to where he’s  _ been _ , just to get any sense of connection.

You go to the right, moving quickly and quietly. 

Each turn around a new corner sends adrenaline coursing through you, pulse quickening. You reach the training chamber and keep moving along, going the way Ren always disappears after your sessions together. You’re approaching his chambers, you can sense it. His energy lingers there, beckoning you. This is dangerous, you know, especially if he’s there, if you’re caught, but there’s no way to resist the call now.

Something raises the hairs at the back of your neck and you glance behind, met with nothing, and then continue on to turn the next corner––

Slamming face first into Kylo Ren himself, solid as a wall and hidden behind the mask.

You stumble backwards, only saved from falling when Ren comes forward and grabs your arm, dragging you along the few meters back to the training chamber, your feet barely kicking the floor. The doors slide open and he releases you gracelessly to sprawl across the floor. The doors close behind him and lock into place with a foreboding  _ click, _ leaving the two of you alone. You scramble to your feet, determined to face him though your heart thuds horribly in your ears, dread blooming deep in your stomach.

“Where were you going?” His voice is filtered through the helmet but the bite is there. He’s pacing already, circling you like a predator in full garb, lightsaber by his side. You turn as he moves, preparing for however he may attack, though any clash would almost certainly be hopeless.

Still, you find that you aren’t just afraid. You’re excited. Angry, too, suddenly. Holding your tongue proves impossible. 

“You had me caged like a prisoner, I only––”

One gloved hand extends and an invisible vice closes around your throat, stopping your rebuttal. There’s a familiar ache at your temples as he probes forward and you use all your strength to shield yourself and block him from your thoughts, though it proves difficult when you’re struggling to breathe.

“Tell me,” he orders, sharper now. 

“Out,” you choke, and the pressure lifts just a hair. “Exploring.  _ Bored _ .”

He releases you. You bring one hand up to cradle your throat, gasping for air. Though the pressure is gone, there’s a certain energy buzzing, something volatile and dangerous in the room. You wonder if you’re going to see that part of him that is feared and whispered about even in the most remote parts of the galaxy. 

That curiosity is satisfied when he takes you by the front of your robes and slams you into the nearest wall. Your hands scrabble at his chest, his arms, trying to push him away or at least sink your nails in–– It’s easier in training. This is real.  For the first time in weeks, a flash of real fear chills you, but then something stronger rises up and consumes it. Anger. Hatred. You wish you could see his face, instead staring into that detestable helmet and hoping he feels the breadth of your hate for him. 

“ _ Bored _ ,” he spits.

“I am not a prisoner to be locked away––”

“ _ You _ are the apprentice, I am the master. I’ll ‘ _ lock you away’ _ for a solar cycle if I see fit.”

Volume and proximity increases all the while. A week ago, you might have held your words and silently taken this treatment in the name of the grander mission. This is different, though. This is an impulsivity you haven’t seen in him before and it's infecting you. Now, you’re blinded, wanting nothing more than to use your own saber to take Kylo Ren’s head off.

“ _ You _ are a coward,” you bite, distantly aware of where this path may lead. “Hidden behind a mask and threatening an unarmed––”

You’re cut off with a heavy blow to the face that snaps your head to the side, pain exploding across your jaw. His lightsaber hilt. He throws it to the ground and wraps his newly freed hand around your throat while stars still pepper your vision from the blow. 

“Hold your tongue,” he says, low and dangerous, “Or I will cut it from your mouth.”

The pain, the grip on your throat, the force of his body pressing yours into the wall makes it impossible to breathe. You’d spit obscenities if you could, settling instead on landing your own blows with little luck. He seems invincible, unaffected, so damned  _ infuriating _ . The need for air is clouding your mind and weakening you, and just when you’re convinced that he’ll kill you like this, he pulls you from the wall to throw you to the floor. You collapse onto hands and knees, each desperate breath like a divine mercy. For a moment, you think he’s left you here as he has before, but then you hear the familiar click-release and heavy thump of his helmet being taken off and set down. You turn your head in time to see his cloak drop to the floor.

“You want to train. Fine,” he says, turning back to pace towards you again, “then we will train. Use your anger. Fight.”

He must be joking–– but the steeliness of his face says otherwise. You’re in no condition to fight anyone, let alone  _ him _ , but this is no fight. This is a punishment. It’s apparent in the way his eyes gleam when you pull yourself to your feet, the predatory way he watches you. This is the Kylo Ren you’d heard so much about. This is the deadliest, darkest side of him. Despite your injured state, your pride and anger won’t allow you to back down and accept defeat. Even if you did, something tells you he wouldn’t allow it. 

This will hurt. You’re certain of that. But you’ll fight until the end of it.

You find the familiar stance he’d taught you, bracing yourself, waiting for the first move.

He doesn’t make you wait long. 

Almost instantly he’s upon you, and though you expect each attack, he remains a step ahead. Your blows don’t land and each escape is anticipated and countered with a different assault. The struggle doesn’t last long. In a few short moments, you’re pinned beneath him, hurting and breathless as his hands find your wrists, landing the both of you exactly where you’d left off a week before.

It’s the same as last time, only illuminated. You can see the depth of dark eyes, the broadness of his shoulders. You see his sneer and remember how those lips had felt against yours. He’s still again, much like last time, a stark contrast to your own state. You struggle against his grip as if you could ever escape it, knowing deep down that your efforts will be fruitless. He’s watching you, unreadable but dark. 

“I hate you,” you spit, and finally that icy facade fractures when he leans down, face close enough that you feel his breath when he speaks:

“Hate me, then.”

Your mouths finally clash. No tenderness, no affection. It’s an act of violence, one that hurts and angers and pleases in equal parts. You can scarcely breathe, caught in the rhythm of tongue and teeth, but you gladly reciprocate as well as you can in your position.

This kiss, if you can call it that, lasts longer than the last and you never want it to end, that familiar heat rising in you once again. He slots one knee between your legs, then another, fitting himself there. Your thighs squeeze his hips and, and–– 

In one rough motion, he grinds against you, stealing your breath.  _ Gods. _ You hate him, _you hate him_ , but the contact is so, so perfect. Despite yourself, you arch up to meet the pressure, groaning at the friction. Though desperate and clothed, even this is divine. Even here, on the floor of the chamber where you’ve fought and collided with him time and time again. It’s quiet and it’s cold, but his heat keeps you warm.

When your head lolls back, his assault moves to your throat, biting hard enough to elicit a cry. Your struggles renew, wanting to hurt him, wanting to pull him closer. He only lets go to tear your robe open, the cold air instantly raising goosebumps across your exposed chest. With your hands free, you return the favor, tugging at his shirt until he pulls it up over his head, tossing it aside without much pause in his work. Your collarbones fall victim next, his mouth hot as he trails bruises down, down, until his mouth finds and catches your nipple. You gasp, both hands coming to tangle in his hair. 

“ _ Gods _ ,” you whisper, biting your lip as he sucks and nips at it, triggering an electricity in your veins that seems to pool in the pit of your stomach. You almost whine when he moves on but manage, somehow, to stop yourself. Before you can catch your breath, he’s up again, kissing you once more before pulling back to kneel in place. He watches you as he pulls both gloves off, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, lips parted and reddened. You swallow hard, exposed and waiting but unable to break away from his gaze until his bare hands find your body, hovering over you again, hair hanging down and tickling your face. You feel his chest–– so  _ broad _ –– and slide your hands up over his shoulders and down his back. His skin is hot, soft, marred here and there by old scars. You know yours is the same. 

The rest happens almost too quickly to register. His hands find your waistband and tug your pants downward until you’re on full display, much too wanting to care much. He will see your marks, your scars, your tattoos, but none of it matters. There’s one thought on your mind.  _ Touch me _ .

As if he’d heard you, and maybe he had, he supports himself with one hand planted next to your head, the other coming down and finding your cunt, already soaked. Your breath stutters as he explores and you try not to writhe, try not to buck up against his hand and tell him to get one with it–– You don’t have much of a chance. Two fingers find your entrance and plunge inside of you, filling and stretching you. Your nails dig into his skin as he sinks them all the way, the heel of his palm pressing against your clit and  _ stars _ , that’s perfect. It’s been so long since you’ve felt the touch of another, especially like this, that what little pain it causes is greatly overshadowed by pleasure. You _do_ whine this time, arching your back under him as he works you like this, biting roughly along your throat, down the slope of your shoulder, your collarbone. 

His hair smells clean and faintly of smoke. The fingers inside of you curl up to brush the spot that makes your toes curl and you groan, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. His breath is heavy against your skin and you can feel his length against your thigh, hard and heavy. He continues his work until you’re a desperate mess, tossing your head to the side and moving your hips in time with his motions, approaching the end, closer and closer until–––

His fingers withdraw and you’re left empty and desperate, bucking up against him. “Kylo––”

“ _ Master _ ,” he corrects, quiet but intense. You’ve half a mind to argue but he’s inching his pants down now, finally revealing his cock, and you want him too badly to object. Y ou’re more desperate now than you ever have been, shameless, only snapped out of it when he speaks again:

“Say it.”

Infuriating. Your jaw clenches as you meet his eye, but the insubordination rising in your chest is no match for the ache between your legs.

“Master,” you say through your teeth, flat and defiant despite the state you’re in. 

He leans down to speak against your ear.

“Good.”

He sheathes himself inside of you with a snap of his hips and you cry out, so suddenly full that it overwhelms you, hatred forgotten. You’re rigid for a moment, the grip in his hair tightening, but then he’s withdrawing and rolling his hips forward again, groaning low. The pleasure consumes you and your body relaxes, finds rhythm with his as he fucks you. His hands find your hips and grip them hard, surely leaving bruises in his wake, little splotches of blue and purple that will remind you of this for days to come.

Not that you’ll easily forget. 

He’s rutting into you harder and harder, picking up speed and all you can do is hold onto him, dragging nails down his back to elicit moans that light a new fire in you. You press up against him, desperate for every inch of contact, wanting him impossibly closer.

You’re getting close again, heat building at your center and burning down your thighs, crackling like electricity.

“I– Ky–  _ Master _ ,” you manage between huffed breaths, tensing under him. He angles your hips and grazes that perfect spot inside of you and you could  _ scream _ for how good it feels.

“What?” He’s breathless too, but somehow authoritative even now, hair mussed and sticking to his forehead. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”

“I’m g– going to––” You can scarcely get the words out, too overwhelmed by it all to even piece two thoughts together. “Don’t stop, _p_ _ lease–– _ ”

That growing electricity inside of you reaches a fever pitch and bursts, wracking through you so intensely that all you can do is hold onto him for dear life, moaning so obscenely that you’d be ashamed if you could muster up the energy to care. 

“Good girl,” he mutters low, fucking you through it, your body alight and much too sensitive, but he continues on. Each thrust sends another wave of blinding pleasure through you, your legs squeezing his hips as you sink your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your cries. It isn’t much longer before his movements become faster, more erratic. Finally, he sinks into you one last time with a fervent groan and you feel his heat as he cums deep inside of you, shaft throbbing and twitching as nails dig into your hips. His hips jerk forward a few more times as he rides it out, chest heaving and head hung low. 

The two of you stay like that for a moment, breathless and sticky with sweat on the floor, black clothes strewn around you.The sudden silence is deafening, the air still, heavy with the weight of it all. 

Finally, he pulls out of you, looking up through his hair to catch your eye. His expression is hard as ever to read, but somehow more open now. Vulnerable, almost soft as he studies your face. If you thought you’d caught glimpses of his human side before, this is the full display.

Then, as if remembering himself, he steels, shifting back to his usual closed-off demeanor and standing, turning away to dress. Your gaze lingers on him just a moment longer, studying how muscle shifts under pale skin as he moves.

You stand too, suddenly eager to cover up.

By the time he turns back, he’s fully dressed, helmet on, hidden again. You follow him to the door, feeling the mess he’d made between your legs. In the hall, he pauses, not turning to you when he speaks.

“To your quarters. Now.” 

It’s one command you’ll gladly obey. With a glance up to him and a nod, you turn to head that way.

“We’ll continue our work tomorrow,” he says behind you, and when you look back, he’s already turned the corner to head to his chambers. 

You’re left alone yet again, the only sound in the hall the deep mechanic workings of the ship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something about sleeping with the enemy. should make the apprenticeship a lil more interesting / complicated tho,,,, is that a good thing?? we'll find out
> 
> i have some fun stuff planned for this, some angst and struggles and a lot more smut so. buckle up i guess. and thanks for reading!! again this is my first fic so i'd super appreciate any feedback.
> 
> i also have a spotify playlist and a pinterest aesthetic board for this if y'all are interested? lemme know!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lightsaber time baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hurt my own feelings w this one y'all

You don’t sleep that night. You may never sleep again.

Have you lost your mind?

You had returned to your quarters in something of a daze, finding your shoe still stuck in the door. Your curiosity had been rewarded, hadn’t it? When you strip in the bathroom, you see the beginnings of marks on your neck and chest. Then the shower–– scalding and very, very long. Drying and dressing and crawling into bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, waiting for sleep to come. It doesn’t. The thought comes again:  _ Have you lost your mind? _ Have you forgotten your plan? No, no.  _ No _ . Of course not. 

Train under Kylo Ren. Endure. Learn him and become powerful enough to strike him down. 

Where does  _ fucking him _ fit into that? It doesn’t. Chalk it up to a lapse of judgement, a human impulse your mind had been too weak to conquer. Maybe it was loneliness, but that’s no excuse. He was–  _ is _ your enemy. You hate him. He’s responsible for everything that was taken from you and you will kill him if it’s the last thing you do––

But  _ gods _ , he felt good.

_ Good girl. _

The words are remembered so abruptly that you grip the sheets with white knuckles, electricity coursing through your veins once again. That’s what he’d called you as you writhed under him: Good girl. 

And you’ll have to face him tomorrow. How will you meet his eye? How will you fight him?

You’ll do it because you must, just like everything else that has led up to this point. You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? You’re learning the ways of the Force, getting stronger and more capable in your fighting. You’ll put all this behind you and forget about it and continue with your mission as planned.

No matter how hard you try to clear your mind, though, it keeps returning to him. Especially his eyes. His touch. It’s only after hours of tossing and turning that sleep finally, mercifully comes.

***

You wake up groggy and sore from restless dreams, images of him and images of the past. There’s an old dread deep in your gut and it persists while you dress for the day and await Noreth’s arrival. You’re grateful that your robes cover the marks of the night before, deep purples and reds blotching your skin. You’re getting paler, you notice. How long has it been now? Your hair’s growing out, too. The image in the mirror is too unfamiliar for comfort and you make an effort to avoid it as much as possible.

The morning is the same as every other. Noreth. Breakfast. Escorted to the training chambers.

“I’m sure you’re glad to get back to it,” she says in the hall. You don’t reply. She waits another beat before continuing. “Oh, something interesting–– Apparently the Supreme Leader took a trip to Toydaria to speak with. . . I don’t remember his name. The king. Word is that there are still pockets of Resistance here and there, but nothing organized.”

_ Resistance _ . The word alone raises the hairs along the back of your neck. Only pockets, but apparently enough to pique Kylo’s interest.

“Toydaria. Where is that?”

“Mid Rim. The visit was mainly precautionary, at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“And it took that long?”

“Surely not,” Noreth says, almost amused. “But that’s all I’ve heard. It’s hard to know his comings and goings. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

You only hum. You’re not surprised at all. The two of you arrive at the chambers and nod your goodbyes. The door hisses open–– lights  _ on _ , thank the gods–– and you step inside.

There he is, formidable and dark as always, the sight of him sending your heart thudding again. To your relief, he’s masked, though that raises curiosity about the nature of today’s task. Before you reach him, he’s walking your way, passing you, leading you back to the door.

“Come.”

You follow.

He leads the way down the corridor, taking you in the direction you’d just come from–– to your chambers? Out into the rest of the Finalizer?

  
“Where are we going?”

“We’re going on a mission.”

A mission? A change of scenery is a welcome prospect, even if it’s only the rest of the ship. You walk just behind him, satisfied enough to keep your questions to yourself. The buzzing energy you know to be from the great number of people working the ship grows stronger as you pass your quarters and leave that wing of the ship behind.

Trailing him, you notice for the hundredth time just how tall he is, how broad his shoulders are. It leads to thoughts of yesterday, of––

You’re startled by the sight of troopers in the hall, half expecting them to apprehend you until you remember your station. _ Apprentice to Kylo Ren. _ You’re their superior, though you feel rather small. As your journey continues, you notice the glances from all ranks–– they avert their eyes for Kylo but sneak looks your way when you’ve passed them, their thoughts all too loud. Reverence. Fear. Curiosity. You wish you could read Kylo so easily.

A few more minutes and you reach the hangar, the familiar sounds and smells filling you with a nostalgia so strong it shakes your balance. Fuel and smoke and sparks, the chatter of droids and the yelling of commands. Flashes of home, of family. In your peripheral, you see Kylo cant his head and you stiffen, raising your defenses, though you know he must sense the shift in mood. He says nothing to you, but orders a droid to prepare his shuttle.

More looks, more thoughts, a hundred individual energies jumbling together. So much mental stimulation after such a long period of near isolation is more than overwhelming and you find yourself craving the quiet of space.

It occurs to you suddenly that you will be absolutely alone with him. No escape–– For you or for him.

The command shuttle is ready.

You follow close behind him when boarding the craft, relieved when the loading ramp closes behind you. No more glances. No more troopers or droids. He leads the way to the cockpit and you take the seat beside him without prompting, that stiff silence between the two of you persisting while he navigates the ship out of the hangar and leaves the Finalizer’s field. It isn’t until you’re drifting through hyperspace that the silence is broken.

“Inun.”

You turn to look at him without reply.

“You’ve done your academic work and made great progress in your training.”

The praise is such a surprise that it stalls your response, but it’s clear that he won’t speak again until you reply. “Thank you, Master.”

“Your isolation is over. There’s much more for you to learn. You’ll start accompanying me on missions.”

“Is that not what this is?”

“Not quite. We’re going to Krant. You’ve earned your lightsaber.”

_ Your lightsaber _ –– You’d almost given up hope of getting it back peacefully. Your reply is little more than a measured nod, though your thoughts begin to run wild. Combat training will be more interesting, more  _ fair _ . Freedom from your quarters will mean more freedom all around, and having a weapon and the skills to use it. . . it all brings you another step closer to your final goal.

You know that Krant is in the Mid Rim. That must be where he’d been.

“Why Krant?”

“It has a rich history with the Force. We’ll be going to the ruins of an old Sith temple.”

Even the word  _ Sith _ seems dark and corrosive in your mind. Dread begins to rise up like nausea, your body seeming to reject your minglings with the Dark Side. You push it down. It will only get in the way.

It isn’t long before the craft jumps out of hyperspace, the streaking starlight replaced by the voice of space and a clear view of the planet. The blue sphere grows in size as you approach until it takes up the entire viewport. The descent into the atmosphere reveals lush forests, great expanses of trees interrupted here and there by water or stone. It isn’t unlike Aaris III, and though you don’t miss it, there’s something comforting in the familiarity. The anticipation of returning to a natural environment, even if only shortly, buzzes in your veins.

Landing goes smoothly, though it couldn’t have been easy given this terrain. He’s a good pilot, you think, wondering when he might train you.

You can barely contain yourself when the loading ramp finally lowers to the ground, your pace quick enough to make it down before Kylo does. The sky is clear and blue, the air crisp, a cool wind rustling the trees. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t hear the mechanical hum of a ship. It’s quiet here, but not like the oppressive silence of space.  _ Peaceful _ . That’s the word.

One deep breath and then another before you remember yourself and turn back to Kylo. He stands just at the end of the loading dock, watching you, he mask making it difficult, if not impossible, to read him. The two of you stay like that for a fleeting moment, stone-still and observing each other. 

And just like that, it’s over when he turns to start a trek into the forest. You follow without having to be told. 

It’s a rocky path through the trees, life teeming all around but seeming to keep its distance. Reverence, maybe, or fear. Eventually, the trail opens up into a clearing in the trees, revealing the ruins.

All that’s left of the temple is stone perimeter. What was surely once a grand structure now lies strewn across the ground, weathered by an eternity of rain and sun, the few remaining walls covered in vines. When you walk through the arch that used to be the entrance, you see the sun shining down onto a floor covered by dirt and spotted with patches of vines and low shrubs.

Still, something ancient thrums in the air. Something terrible. Kylo strides to the center and you wait for his next move, but for several minutes, he only stands in place, head tilted just a fraction upwards. You wait in the quiet. Rustling leaves and distant birds. Anxiety rises in your chest with each passing minute. 

Finally, he moves, hands coming up to remove his helmet, and you aren’t sure if the feeling in your chest is apprehension or relief. Maybe both. He sets it gently on the ground and straightens again before turning to face you. To your relief, the sight of him sparks that old disdain in your gut just as it always has. Last night hadn’t changed that, at least.

He reaches into his robe and withdraws your lightsaber, silver hilt glinting in the midday sun as he offers it. Eagerly you close the distance and take it, that familiar energy so comforting and nostalgic it very nearly brings tears to your eyes–– No.  _ No. _ You bow your head, brow furrowed, fighting the feeling. He watches you all the while. You take a deep breath, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt when you raise your head again. His eyes flit from the saber to your face, pensive and dark.

“You’ve learned in your studies that Kyber Crystals are alive in their way.”

“Yes.”

“You know that they are attuned to the Light.”

“I know.”

He withdraws his own saber now, though neither of you ignite them just yet. He’s capable of remarkable patience, especially in teaching, especially like this. His fury has a hair trigger, but in its absence, you’re privy to a softer side of him.

_ Focus. _

“The Sith. . . they learned how to harness the crystals’ power. By focusing their anger, their wrath, their pain, they were able to manipulate them. The crystal bleeds. It turns the saber––”

“Red.” Somehow, you’re only just realizing that this was the next step. This weapon found you through the Force, bonded with you in a way beyond your understanding. To break it like this, to make it  _ bleed _ –– It feels like a betrayal. It  _ is _ a betrayal. 

Your gaze shifts from Kylo’s face to the wall behind him, head shaking. Why is this the breaking point, of all things? Why does this gesture seem the most absolute?

“You have to let go of the Light. Remember what brought you here.”

When you look at him again, he almost seems sympathetic–– Firm, but understanding.

“I can’t. I, I. . .”

“You must.” He ignites his saber, the shadows of the ruins illuminated by the red glow. It won’t be long before he strikes. Though hesitant, you ignite your own, comforted by its familiar color, afraid to fracture it.

“All of your pain. Everything you’ve lost.” Slowly, his voice rises in volume and intensity. You look to the ground and try to banish your reluctance with a shake of your head. You hate him. You hate him.  _ Remember. _

“You killed them,” you whisper. “You took everything.”

“And you ran.”

Oh, you remember now.

You strike before he can, bringing your saber over your head and down to clash against his own. Some primal cry escapes you when you try again. Again. Again. Each collision flashes bright and deafeningly loud. Again. He deftly blocks each attack, fighting hard with both hands on the hilt. You feel the strength behind his blows each time you block them, keenly aware that he will overpower you but blinded by your hatred. You want to hurt him.  _ No–– _ You want to kill him.

But you can’t match his pace forever, especially when he abandons defense in favor of landing his own attacks. Just once, you’re too slow to block and his blade slashes down the length of your torso, opening a gash from shoulder to hip and sending you falling backwards. Your vision goes white as the pain steals your breath away. Overwhelmed by the burning, you can only gasp, back arching and heels digging into the ground. It’s too much, too much, you can’t, you’ll die––

His face dips into your field of vision.

“You cling to the Light. That is why you fail.”

You hate him more in this moment than you ever have, more than you thought possible. The weight of your losses hit you suddenly like a ton of bricks. 

Your hand is still wrapped around the saber’s hilt in a steely grip, but you’re too weak to raise it. Too weak to shield yourself when he probes into your mind, skull seeming to split under the pressure. Images flash of your home turned to rubble, the charred bodies of your family, then back further, his words invading your thoughts and tainting the memories of happier times. Things you’d rather die than show him–– Finding the saber. **_Do you think this is how they felt when they died?_** Sitting on your father’s lap as a child. **_Did they see it coming?_** The face of your mother. **_There is no redemption for you. Let go._**

“ _ I hate you––” _

It’s more scream than coherent speech, breaking off into a sob. Your pain is renewed with every breath. Blinding pain. The heat of blood seeping into your robes, of tears stinging your eyes. Your head falls back onto the dirt, vision fading quickly. 

The illumination of your lightsaber on the nearest wall flickers and darkens. It shifts to red.

Everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch owie ouchy ow
> 
> at least you get a cool lil anakin moment there :) next chapter won't be so painful bc we'll get a lil soft. some soft kylo taking care of you.  
> as always, i'd love to hear what you think and feedback is always appreciated, constructive criticism welcome!!
> 
> also there's a playlist for this here that i'm slowly adding stuff to. the song i listened to most writing this chapter was Evening Reflections. there is ALSO a growing pinterest board for the ~aesthetic~. i'll drop both those links below. see y'all next time!!
> 
> playlist: https://tinyurl.com/yxtncgyj  
> aesthetic board: https://tinyurl.com/y3e9amcu  
> my twt: @robertjfett


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soft kyle
> 
> also foreshadowing

You drift in and out of consciousness. Blue sky, tree canopy. Sturdy support under you and the smell of leather–– he’s carrying you. Darkness again. The inside of the ship. In your foggy state, you hear snippets of his transmissions to the Finalizer.

“. . . medical units in the hangar. . .

. . . used bacta spray. . .

. . . hyperspace. It won’t be long.”

The sting of a needle in your thigh and the subsequent burning of the medicine entering your bloodstream shocks you to consciousness with a gasp, though your mind and vision remain cloudy. You’re lying on a cot folded out from the wall and Kylo is at your side, brow furrowed in steady concentration as he finishes depressing the plunger and finally withdraws the syringe. Each breath sends another wave of pain rolling through you, but whatever he’s injected seems to be slowly dulling it. You realize that your robes are open. 

Your fury and grief seem to be miles away, something to be shelved and dealt with later. Exhaustion has robbed you of it for now. Similarly, this side of Kylo is a far cry from what you’d just witnessed on Krant. He works quietly with gentle hands, though there isn’t all that much to be done; the rest will need to be handled by a med unit. You watch his face and there seems to be something there beyond concentration. Concern? Of course not. Even with a foggy mind, you know better than to expect that from him.

But when the work on your wound is done, he stalls, hesitates–– rests a hand on your arm, eyes cast downward. You wish he’d look at you straight on. It’s difficult to read him, but not impossible, especially when you can see his eyes. His hand trails downward and finally rests on yours. 

Perhaps you don’t need his eyes to read him. You turn your palm upward, wrap your fingers around his in as tight of a grip as you can manage. No conscious thought behind it, barely any reservation, just a much needed touch. Even if it’s gloved. Even if it’s his.

“You did well,” he says after a long moment, gaze finally shifting to your face. The words ring bitterly but you don’t quite have the energy to hate them. Not now. 

Every day, you stray further from the Light. Your only solace is that it brings you ever closer to your goal, but even that thought doesn’t comfort you now. The goal is clouded, distant. Perhaps it is changing. Too much to consider right now. All you can think of is his hand on yours. It’s all you feel as you drift away once more.

* * *

There’s no way to be certain how much time passes. You wake briefly somewhere unfamiliar, eyes fluttering open only to be blinded by fluorescent light. It takes a few deep breaths to realize that the sharp pain has been replaced by a dull ache–– ever present but much more bearable. At your side, you flex your hand, half-expecting to still feel Kylo’s grip, but your fingers close around nothing.

You hear his voice, though. Back and forth with a med unit. His presence is enough to reassure you as you slip away again.

Finally, you return to full consciousness, greeted by the familiar sight of your room. You sense him before you see him, turning your head to find Kylo sat by your side, maskless. 

“How are you feeling?”

As tempting as it is to make some snide remark about the fact that it was  _ him _ who had injured you so badly, you refrain. For now.

“Fine.” Your voice is weaker than you’d like. His brow furrows minutely and you look away, only to be pulled back when he takes your chin between gloved thumb and finger. Gentle, though. More gentle than you can ever remember him being. Still, the contact surprises you. It’s bold. Brown eyes search your face. In other circumstances, you might wrench yourself from his grip and keep your distance. 

Something is different now, though. Something hard to identify.

“You did well,” he finally says.

“You said that on the ship.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.”

“That bad, huh?”

He pauses, hand releasing your chin to cup the side of your neck, thumb tracing your jaw. You swallow, surprised but unmoving. It feels wrong. It feels good. Comforting. How could that be? After everything, how could his touch do anything but burn your skin?

“You’re a worthy apprentice. Strong.”

“Is that your idea of a compliment?”

You see the faintest smile flicker across his face. Is that a first? You certainly don’t remember anything other than cool professionalism or violent anger from him–– before now. There’s something new, or perhaps something old that is just now coming to the forefront. You sense it, but it’s hard to place.

“You’ll need a few days to heal,” he says. You wonder if he can feel your pulse under his palm. “Then we can begin your training with the lightsaber.”

As exciting as that prospect is, your gut reaction is dread. You’d just spent a number of days confined to this room and you’d like to avoid another stint. He’s right, though. You’re in no condition to train.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to lock me up again.”

“I never locked you up,” he argues, then hesitates. “You weren’t–– I was gone. It was the only option.”

You only hum your skepticism, and he takes it to heart.

“Tomorrow, or the next day, if you’re feeling up to walking, I’ll show you the ship,” he says. “No promises, though. Only if you’re well enough.”

“I will be,” you say, eager for a change of pace. “I’ll be fine. Strong apprentice, right?”

Kylo smiles, then looks to the ceiling with a huff of a laugh. His hand moves from your neck to your hand, and you turn your palm to take it as you had on the ship. A moment’s silence between you, the energy in the room shifting to conflict for both of you. He sighs.

“This isn’t the way of the Sith,” you note, breaking the silence. 

“We aren’t Sith,” Kylo says. His vision is distant, voice soft when he speaks. “Nor Jedi. The old ways were flawed. They’re dead. I’m making something new.”

“Not like you and Snoke.”

“No. Nothing like that. It isn’t just about power, it’s. . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Quiet again. He seems to be remembering something. You know little about his origin, only what conclusions you’ve been able to draw from bits and pieces during lessons. 

“You saw my past,” you say, and it takes conscious effort to keep your resentment at bay. Curiosity takes precedence now. “Let me see yours.”

“No.” His immediate answer brings him back to the present, a chill settling around him. As if remembering himself, his hand leaves yours and you regret asking. For a moment, you regret everything. You look up to the ceiling and he looks away, the wall between you up once again. Kylo stands, heads towards the door, but stops short, pausing with his head cocked as if struck by some urgent thought. You do look at him now, waiting for the next word, expecting a reprimand or harsh reminder of your place.

“I’ll come tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder.

And then he’s gone.

When the door clicks into place, you realize that you’ve been holding your breath. You’d said the wrong thing– or had you? He hadn’t been angry, just. . . closed off. Hesitant. Afraid, maybe. Kylo Ren, afraid. Just a few days before, you might not have thought of that as a possibility. Now, he’s given you glimpses of that side of him you’d suspected was there. Conflict. Grief.  _ Light. _

You sigh. The last fight should have renewed your convictions, but your mission seems further from your grasp every day. The Kylo Ren that commands the First Order, the one who had brought you here, who had invaded your mind and nearly killed you on Krant– you hate that Kylo Ren. The darkness in you sees the darkness in him and rages against it, longing to destroy him for good. 

_ Longing to take his place. _

A vision comes to you so quickly and intensely that it steals your breath:

_ A red room. Guards lie dead on the floor. Ren pins you to the ground, saber in hand, light and dark waging war in him as he decides whether or not to kill you. The light in him– his hesitance– will be his downfall. You summon your saber from across the room and the cool metal lands eagerly in your hand. You press the end of it beneath his chin. _

_ You ignite it. _

You cry out, suddenly back in the dim lighting of your room. In your fear, you try to sit up but are stopped and silenced by the pain. You fall back onto the bed, panting, trembling. You thought you could defeat him without succumbing to the darkness. You thought that you could bend it to your will. A lofty goal. A foolish one.

Tears sting your eyes. No, no,  _ no _ . You bring your hands up to hide your face as you sob once, body tensing as you try to fight the tears. How long has it been since you felt the voices of your family? How long has it been since you even thought of them? What happens if you complete this mission only to become the very thing you’d sought to destroy?

_ No. _ That won’t happen. You won’t let it. You will reach the end. You will destroy Kylo Ren. You will destroy the First Order.

And then you will destroy yourself.

* * *

In his quarters, Kylo is struck with a sharp headache and an unnamed grief, but can find no cause or source. He writes it off as another pang of nostalgia for the light, for the past. It’s to be expected, given how he’d let his guard down for his apprentice. Troubled, he spends several hours awake in the dark before finally slipping into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kyle ron is a gemini but so are you
> 
> this chapter's a bit shorter!! but big things are in the works tho and i'm excited
> 
> as always i'd love to hear ur thoughts, feedback, etc!!
> 
> twt: @robertjfett  
> tumblr: mezzobee  
> fic board: https://tinyurl.com/y3e9amcu  
> fic playlist: https://tinyurl.com/yxtncgyj


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